


brave smile and a great heart

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Community: galentinesday, F/F, Summer, Woke Up Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leslie Knope wakes up gay. Or does she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	brave smile and a great heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhatBecomesOfYou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatBecomesOfYou/gifts).



> Thanks: to gloss for the obvious reasons and the little ones even she doesn’t know about. For being my Ann Perkins, and for, sometimes, being my Muriel. Thanks to prozacpark for always being my Galentine.

It’s summer. Not the Fourth of July or Flag-Arbor Day (which, Leslie argued, fanning herself with an overstuffed binder that naturally, in the process of fanning quickly became _un_ stuffed, was never intended to be celebrated with prophylactics. Ann, in her rush to gather the fluttering budgets, never quite got around to correcting her) but that doesn’t stop Pawnee’s more enthusiastic and loud noise-loving residents from setting off fireworks. 

From their view seated in kitchen chairs they’ve dragged onto Ann’s porch, Ann and Leslie can’t quite see the sprays of color across the darkening sky, but they can pretend that the crashes and booms offer a relaxing end to a day full of meetings and paperwork and broken air conditioning units (and unstuffed binders). That’s what Ann is doing, at least. She imagines that Leslie is merely gearing up for tomorrow. They sit in the sweltering heat that lingers in the air after sunset, neither suggesting that they take the more sensible option and head indoors -- after all, Ann’s AC works just fine -- and drink iced cocoa -- a chocolate milk drink that Ann invented (it’s just chocolate milk with ice cubes) with extra whipped cream and a fancy straw for Leslie.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” Ann asks. She stretches to set her cup down on the porch railing, which is a difficult maneuver because of Leslie’s head on her shoulder. She doesn’t want to jostle her friend from her increasingly sleepy perch. The question seems like a natural extension of the night, of the extra-wild day they’ve had, of the feeling of cool milk in her warm stomach. The air is still and sticky-hot, but her movement stirs up a micro-breeze that tugs at Leslie’s hair, shifting and settling that spun gold. She sets the cup on the rail and settles back, sliding her hand into Leslie’s, a movement that feels as natural as breathing, even if it makes hers hitch. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that, beautiful starfish-faced Ann Perkins. But I do wish that things were just like this.” She takes a large sip of chocolate from the crazy straw, the liquid rising up and up in loops, so Ann isn’t certain, when she concludes her statement if Leslie is referring to the two of them, sticky with the heat and the chocolate, but still holding hands, or the cool confection settling in their bellies. “Perfect.”

As if punctuating her proclamation, another seemingly harmless explosion sounds, dusting the sky with light.

\--

It’s summer. Still not the Fourth of July or Flag-Arbor Day, and the air conditioning units on the main floor of Pioneer Hall are still broken, but other than that it is shaping up to be another day at the office.

“Ann!” Leslie bursts into Ann’s office, a hurricane of kinetic energy and loud noise, two things that Stuart seems to have as a fixture near the top of the list of things he hates. Or perhaps that entry simply reads _Leslie Knope_. “Ann! Ann! EMERGENCY!” She swings her manic attention to Stuart -- and maybe he _does_ have good reason to hate her -- “Emergency _private_ discussion!” she hisses, slamming her hands (and the papers in them) down on Ann’s desk. Her glare (Ann avoids it this time, but knows from past experience) could make a small child, or Tom, cry. 

Stuart, however, has a _lot_ of experience and a glarer or two probably populated this building before Leslie ever set foot inside. “No,” is all Ann’s officemate offers, not even giving Leslie his full attention. 

“Let’s go to my office, then,” Leslie says, taking a moment to re-gather the material she brought in. That’s when Ann knows it’s serious. 

\--

But how serious could it possibly be? It’s only been -- Ann checks her watch -- nine and a half hours since they parted for the night, Leslie sleepily insisting that she drive home because she had work to do and Ann didn’t have the right blanket. What sort of serious things happen in nine and a half hours that don’t involve one or both parties hospitalized?

“I’m gay.”

The words pop out of Leslie’s mouth as soon as her office door closes behind the only-slightly-protesting Tom. 

Ann can feel her body changing temperature. Is the AC broken again? (Perhaps just in Leslie’s office. Just in Leslie’s vicinity?) She swallows. Breathes through her mouth. Leslie is... smiling?

“I know this may come as a shock, but beautiful, koala bear Ann, I know you will accept me however I identify and--”

“No, you aren’t.” Ann is almost positive she has had a dream like this, only in the dream, Leslie was a pumpkin and April’s hair was made of knives. Ann has weird dreams. But this is weirder, if that is possible. And it _is_ possible, because this is incredibly, intangibly, terribly weird. Ann feels all tingly, like her entire body is falling asleep all at once. 

“What?”

“You aren’t gay, Leslie. You’ve dated, like,” Ann feels like her brain is on fire, boiling, spilling over. Pumpkin guts. “A gagillion guys. And you were straight last night! You can’t just wake up, and magically be gay.” She’s waiting for... something. For Leslie to contradict her, to set her straight ( _straight_ , Ann, Jesus), to make this just a _little_ less crazy. She’s waiting for the part where she wakes up and Leslie is there in the hallway, cackling at the way Ann thrashes in her sleep and holding an extra coffee with whipped cream. 

Instead, Leslie laughs. “Oh Ann, sometimes I forget that you weren’t _born_ here.” If Ann’s brain were working correctly instead of melting into some form of molasses, she would counter that remark with a gentle reminder that Leslie, technically, wasn’t born here either, but that’s a retort for another time. A time when the world makes sense again. She knocks a pencil off Leslie’s desk and it still clatters to the floor. 

Huh.

Apparently not finished spinning Ann’s world off center, Leslie steps around to the other side of her desk and pulls up her web browser. “When I got here this morning, around six, the maintenance crew told me that the power wasn’t finished cycling. They had to turn everything off to fix the air conditioning! Isn’t that ridiculous, Ann! And of course, they didn’t warn us last night so I’m sure _no one_ properly shut down their machines and when I managed to cut through all the red tape and get in here and boot this fella up, I realized that months and months of work had been lost.”

“And you’re okay with that?” This is familiar territory in some respect, the Leslie ramble. Ann can at least cling to her role, here, and feel a little less like the room is spinning. _Gay women date men all the time. Okay, not all the time. But sometimes. Especially when they aren’t out,_ she rationalizes, takes the first step back to Earth.

“Oh, of course not, Ann,” Leslie laughs, the distinct notes tumbling over both of them, “but had I not lost that information, I would not have opened up good ole Internet Explorer here and found that it had saved some several hundred tabs for me. Apparently, I’ve been opening new window thingies for months with the intent to read and file and, by the way, I’m pretty peeved that some of this didn’t make it into my book!”

“Um.”

“I bet you’re wondering what this has to do with my being gay!”

Not at _all_ , no. “I am, yes.”

“Oh, Ann, you’re so patient and you smell really good and I like your blouse.” Leslie dramatically turns the monitor around without giving Ann much of a chance to respond to _that_ , except the computer isn’t really made to do that, and thankfully Ann is there to catch the jar of pens (which also respond naturally to gravity) and soon the monitor itself when it all tips just far enough off the back of Leslie’s desk. “Maybe you should come over here!” she suggests, overcompensating for the movement, this time jerking the monitor -- almost -- forward onto its face.

Ann quickly scoots to Leslie’s side, certain she’s imagining the warmth there. There, on the screen, despite the near accidents, is the bold headline: _Local Man Wakes Up Gay_.

Leslie, naturally, is beaming.

Ann, God help her, wants to kiss her.

\--

“Well, Ann, I wanted you to be the first to know, obviously, and I must say, your lack of reaction has been a little on the disappointing side.”

“I’m not sure if I have an appropriate ringtone queued up on this thing, Leslie. This is not what I was expecting to hear when I got to work this morning. _The AC is fixed!_ \-- sure. _We need more binders!_ \-- fine. _I’m gay?_ \--“ Ann exhales, clearing her suddenly very blocked throat. “That sort of thing doesn’t just happen overnight,” she concludes, offering a gentle hand on Leslie’s shoulder, hoping she supposes, to lessen the blow.

But Leslie laughs, again, and try as she might, Ann can see no trace of secondary meaning behind Leslie’s bright blue eyes. “Of course it does!” She takes Ann’s hand from her own shoulder, kisses the palm chastely and squeezes. “Just wait for the presentation. Now,” Leslie drops Ann’s hand and smacks her -- gently -- on the ass. “I need time to prep, and you need to get back to work. The Health won’t Depart... ment itself, Ann!” Par for the course in their relationship, Ann finds herself pushed back out of Leslie’s office without so much of a word in protest. 

Stuart doesn’t hide his irritation at having to share the limited space once more, a fact that makes Ann feel like either shrinking into her shoes or slamming doors and pens and computers because at least _that_ makes sense. At least then Stuart could be mad for a _real_ reason and not just because he is a grumpy, cantankerous man who probably has hemorrhoids but refuses her medical advice.

\--

But of course, the Health _does_ Depart... ment itself, because Ann can’t possibly be expected to focus on forms and initiatives when her best friend in the entire universe woke up gay this morning. And how, exactly did she come to that realization? Does being gay feel different from being straight? What if Leslie woke up this morning, opened her browser tabs and saw an article about a Pawneean who woke up suddenly adept at fishing (not that Leslie isn’t already adept at fishing -- she’s _kind_ of amazing at just about everything) would Leslie, in turn, have woken up the same? Is that... Ann shouldn’t even be thinking that, right? There are rules to friendship, and Ann has just broken one. 

But what _changed_? 

She dials Leslie on her cell for the fourth time in five minutes, but Leslie doesn’t answer. Even holding her phone on her lap, Ann can hear Leslie’s cheery voice urging the caller to leave a message when it clicks over to voicemail. 

If she could, she would leave a message for Leslie _yesterday_. Maybe then she’d have a single, solitary clue what this was about. Then again... Ann flips through her saved messages, smiling when she selects a call from Leslie about a month ago. Nothing life-changing, just something she saved rather than deleted on impulse and finds herself listening to after a long day. “Beautiful, talented, coconut-scented Ann,” Leslie begins, taking a breath, gearing up for a long rant.

The door bursts open, and Ann puts her phone down, caught. She can feel herself blushing, but isn’t sure why. “Ann! Ann, come on! It’s time! Leslie says she isn’t gonna start without you!” Andy bounces a few times, like a child begging for a treat. Ann slips her phone into her pocket and grabs a granola bar for Andy. Might as well make one person happy.

\--

If there’s one thing that Leslie can do well (and she can do at least three or four), it’s make an announcement. The Parks Department lobby is transformed: Donna and Jerry have been displaced and the entire room is in semi-darkness to allow for a makeshift “stage.” Standing dutifully (or grumpily, you pick) under the overhead lamp outside Leslie’s door (Ann can picture Leslie on the other side, drinking streams of water, pumping herself up for the big moment) is Ethel Beavers, Pioneer Hall’s Court Recorder. She’s holding a thick binder of material and looking none-too-pleased about it. Her hunched form is shadowed closely by the kinder-looking Black woman who works with Ethel on the fourth floor. Muriel -- at least Ann thinks that’s her name -- fiddles with the City Hall AV equipment dolly. 

Tom, looking excited -- if not about the announcement itself, then for the break in routine; Ann knows him well enough -- rubs his hands together and does a quick dance move before dramatically hitting _play_ on his iPhone. The pop-y beats of “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross plays from the tinny speakers, and Leslie steps into the light to a smattering of applause, mostly -- Ann looks around -- from Andy. She’s changed clothes and there’s _no_ way she had time to go home which means that Leslie keeps a full pantsuit in her office and for some reason Ann isn’t at all surprised. She sways there, for a moment, to the music, smiling, and Ann barely manages not to groan. She needs an Advil. Or eight.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Parks Department, I have the honor of presenting the esteemed Leslie Knope, who, as you know, has something _pretty cool_ to tell you.” Tom may not have had the time to create an E 7-20-calibre extravaganza, but as the song moves into instrumentals, he takes Leslie’s hand and joins her in a few classy moves. 

Ann groans.

“That’s enough,” Ron interrupts. “As much as I encourage any activity that wastes taxpayer money, I would prefer if we could funnel time without indulging in a dance party.”

“Too true, Ron, too true,” Leslie snaps free from Tom’s hands, gesturing wildly for him to silence the music. She’s switched into Business Mode. She probably has a speech memorized. If this wasn’t such recent news, Ann would suspect Leslie had been up all night working on it. “I have gathered all of you -- my closest friends -- here today for a very _serious_ occasion and a very important announcement.”

Dragging the floor lamp with a terrible screech for a few steps and then thinking better of it, Leslie continues. “This morning, I had the honor of joining at least one Pawneean, and _several_ world citizens in the --- of waking up gay.”

Leslie’s pause for dramatic effect was put to good use.

“Waking up _what_?”

“Absurd!”

“I did that once. It was really sticky.”

“That’s right,” Leslie says, seemingly ignoring the general tone of disbelief in the room. “I know it will be hard for some of you to accept, but I’m gay. And I have some material here that should help for those that need convincing.”

Sensing his cue, Tom hops up from his perch on the edge of April’s desk and rushes to hand everyone what looks like photocopies of an old newspaper article. “Saving the original for you,” he says, taking the final page gingerly between two fingers -- as if he doesn’t want the age of the thing to wear off on his perfectly moisturized skin.

Ann wordlessly takes the document she is handed -- a hard copy of the piece Leslie had kept tabbed for months and forgotten about. It certainly looks authentic enough -- the paper is aged, and the _Pawnee Sun_ article is riddled with familiar gaffs and typos. Of course, Ann learned how to age paper with tea in Girl Scouts, and she’s positive that the gleam in Ethel’s eye isn’t unshed tears. “Beavers and I have been combing the City Archives for these historical documents that have before now been buried from the public eye!” Leslie looks ready to pounce, boiling over with nervous energy. She springs from person to person, reading over their shoulders and mouthing the words to the article Ann’s certain she’s memorized by now.

Ethel seems moved to respond. “That is an overstatement.”

“‘And that was the very first time I was becoming aroused by another male’--wha-ha-haat?” Andy reads aloud, for everyone’s benefit, really.

The article went on to disclaim that while an anonymous source claimed the source of the gayness to be a particularly nasty strain of runoff from the Sweetums factory, that claim could not be confirmed nor denied via outside study because, basically, no one cared enough.

“If repeating myself increases the likelihood that this foolishness will be resolved sooner rather than later, I say again: Absurd.” Ron, in a fit of journalistic rage, crumples his copy and throws it near the trash can. “Knope, if you have something you would like to discuss with me, I will be in my office.”

“But Ron!” April swoons, “how can we rest when there is a stream of _pure gay_ running through this town?”

“I know--” Leslie bursts in loudly, in a wild attempt to regain the favor of the crowd. “I know the article presents some pretty compelling points, but do you think I would have brought you here if that was the only evidence I had?” Smartly, no one replies. Ann isn’t supposed to feel bad for Leslie, not when she’s _obviously_ making this up and going to such lengths.

She steps forward, just a little. “What other evidence do you have, Leslie?” she asks, not believing herself even as she knows that question is the precise reason she is here. In this room, maybe even on this earth. 

“You know, Leslie, I have always wondered if you wouldn’t be happier dating a lady or two. You’re--”

“Jesus, Jerry! She just woke up gay this morning!”

“Are you ready with the tape, Muriel?” Leslie snaps -- and, if she could, if it wouldn’t betray every weakness swirling inside of her, Ann would rush up and hug her. But this is Leslie’s bed, and for all that Ann can help tidy it up around the edges, Leslie’s the one who has to lie in it. 

Muriel’s mouth lifts at the corner and she shrugs before turning to insert a video tape into the ancient City Hall VHS player. “Don’t blame me,” she says, her low voice obviously intended only for Ann’s ears, “I just man the equipment.”

 _Wo_ man, Ann corrects automatically, in that little Leslie voice that sits on her shoulder. They’ve either known each other too long or not long enough. 

“Well,” Leslie asks, bouncing up on the balls of her feet, frustrated at the general lack of willingness in the room to follow her narrative of historical precedent, “are you ready for more?”

Without any of the flair Ann is sure Leslie would prefer, Muriel presses play on the ancient machine and it whirs to life, causing the television to flicker blue then fuzzy gray, then to colorful life with the familiar face of Perd Hapley. “Welcome to Ya Heard with Perd. I’m your host Perd Hapley, Perd Hapley is me. Tonight on Ya Heard with Perd -- this show -- we have a special report. I am about to tell you what that special report is. That special report concerns breaking news that suggests the Sweetums factory is responsible for turning this man--” the image cuts away from Perd’s inscrutable face to a photograph of someone whom Ann could only be expected to assume was a Pawnee resident. While the camera remains trained on the smiling face of “this man” Perd’s voice continues. “Gay.” 

April gasps -- an overdramatic, mocking thing, her fluttery hand rising to her lips, but Leslie grins, finally satisfied. 

\--

Leslie still looks a little like the wind’s been knocked out of her when she and Ann sit down at “the usual” booth at JJs. “The usual” also implies an order, one which Ann has to quickly override or she’ll spend the afternoon in a sugar coma. No sense in an _entire_ day wasted. She orders a salad with grilled chicken, and the look Leslie gives her is so sad that Ann orders a slice of pie. “Dessert first, please.”

The waitress leaves, and Leslie slumps further down onto the table, her head cradled in her crossed arms. 

“Talk to me,” Ann says, because she already knows what’s wrong. 

“I really wasn’t expecting everyone to be so homophobic, Ann. I’m really, really disa--”

“Whoa.” Ann holds out her hand to physically stop Leslie if necessary because absolutely no fucking way is that sentence continuing. “I’m not even going to get into the number of things that are completely, terrifyingly wrong with that sentence, but also? I am. I felt bad for you, back there, Leslie. Because I’m your friend, and I love you. But this waking up gay bullshit? It’s bullshit! You’re the one being homophobic! And -- and you’re invalidating anyone else who might choose to come out -- or _not_ come out -- and that isn’t fair and it isn’t fair that you get to sit here and eat waffles and complain about it.”

Leslie is staring at her now, meekly, looking up from her table-top perch. Her eyes have softened, and for once in her life, Ann can’t read what’s going on behind them.

“And maybe I shouldn’t push it, but that Perd footage is _clearly_ fake, Leslie. I would have thought you of all people would be above manipulating history for your own personal gain. Why would you need to go to such lengths to avoid _really_ coming out, anyway? What _changed_ , Leslie? I was there with you last night, and we were two -- mostly straight -- friends enjoying an iced cocoa. Why do _you_ get to wake up gay and I don’t?”

Leslie sputters for a moment, winding up before settling on an answer that is strangely much smaller and quieter and more wonderful than Ann would have guessed. “I thought it would make things easier,” she says, almost whispering. “It’s hard enough being a lady in the government boy’s club... without falling for your beautiful nurse best friend.”

There are waffles, then, and pie, and salad, and a few moments for both of them to catch their breaths. Instead of reaching for her fork, Leslie takes Ann’s hand and squeezes. “I knew it last night, finally. When you held my hand. I knew that I had to do this or die regretting it. And no one can argue with a historical and medically sound diagnosis backed by the _Pawnee Sun_ , right?”

It’s something like an apology, and something like a beginning. Ann squeezes back. “Eat your waffles,” she says, her own voice thick like maple syrup. “You don’t want your whipped cream to melt.”

\--

It’s Summer, and the Fourth of July is right around the corner. The nightly fireworks have gotten old, but Ann’s Iced Cocoas haven’t. 

They’re holding hands (they do that, now) and sitting on Ann’s porch even though it is still ungodly hot outside and the air smells faintly of corn syrup. “And he clapped me on the shoulder and said,” Leslie lowers her voice and puffs out her chest, “well done, Knope.”

Ann smiles, and leans in for a kiss (they do that, sometimes, too). “You did good, Leslie. I’m impressed.”

Leslie grins and uses the opportunity to take a finger swipe of Ann’s whipped cream. “I think I did it the right way for me. Spotlight and audio-visual presentation included.” She’s teasing, but there’s a gentle ease that wasn’t there a week ago, and Leslie’s hands are sticky from the heat and from the cocoa and Ann doesn’t mind at all.


End file.
